Stuff

3 September 201530 January 2016

Mod Cons

Relocating Fortress Mamea to a rural location means a little bit of doing without. Cellphone reception is spotty — upon departing the property, cellphones tend to trill with backlogged txts and messages. Our nearest neighbour is over a hundred yards away (in Auckland, our neighbour’s garage was five yards away). And our water comes from… a water tank on the property.

Yep, when it comes to water, we’re off the grid. Rain water is collected and stored in a large concrete tank, with the idea of collecting it over a wet Northland winter, and stretching it out over the drier months. Long, hot showers are being enjoyed while it’s raining outside; come summer, navy showers will be de rigeur. Water closet discipline is observed as a matter of course.

Between the living quarters and the water tank is a pump that, y’know, gets water from the tank to the tap or shower head.

I don’t know if I’ve owned up to this before but The Goddess wears the pants in our relationship: She’s DIY, green-thumbed, and an all-round nurturer; for my part, I require supervision when using power tools, am the destroyer of all pre-approved greenery, and love to be nurtured. So when the property was acquired and its various rural peculiarities noted, one of my fears was having something essential and mechanical break down.

Something like the water pump, which stopped working on the first month anniversary of moving in.

THE GODDESS stands over the reticent B1 PUMP, a wrench in hand.

THE GODDESS

(re. pump)

... Oh dear.

Our WRITER, standing nearby, makes an involuntary noise, not unlike a whimper.

THE GODDESS (CONT’D)

Do you want to move back to Auckland?

WRITER

This is just a... first act obstacle in an Alistair Maclean book.

THE GODDESS

That’s my boy.

WRITER

Who you calling ‘boy’?

She smiles.

22 August 201530 January 2016

Whangarei

Would you believe that I’ve moved to a town that I first visited* only several months earlier? It feels like The Goddess‘ Five Year plan pulled a sack over my head and WHOA, here I am in Northland**.

It’s nice and green and open up here. The ~~town~~ city is small without being tiny or compact, it’s to be home to a Hundterwasser Museum, and the overall vibe is of 1970s New Zild — unhurried and she’ll-be-right.

It also seems to have a bit of a rep. I was puzzled and a little concerned by people’s reactions to the announcement of our northward move. “How safe is it?” asked a favoured relation, which I misunderstood to mean the health and safety hazards inherent in a rural property. “Better have eyes in the back of your head,” a colleague emailed, with a link to a recent sudden and violent death in the district. And then there was the Mamea family reaction:

WRITER

(into phone)

We’re moving to Whangarei, Mother.

WRITER’S MOTHER

(V.O.; filter)

To where?

WRITER

(into phone)

Whangarei.

WRITER’S MOTHER

(V.O.; filter)

... Whangarei is full of Maoris, son.

Beat.

WRITER

(into phone)

You do know that more than half of your grandchildren are part Maori?

WRITER’S MOTHER

(V.O.; filter)

Yes, and every day I forgive their parents.

I think we’re as safe here as we would be anywhere else in the world — safer, even, with our natural barriers. The natives are friendly — more than they’ve a right to be since we’re part of a wave of former Auckland residents increasing house and land prices — and there’s no sense of being judged on appearance.

I like how fellow road users use the two-second rule, obey the amber light, and merge like a zip. I like how, in shops and businesses, people are sincere with their howdedo’s, and they sound genuinely sorry for not stocking an item you’re after. I like how winter in Whangarei town looks like a rugged outdoor clothing convention, where mud-encrusted gumboots or jandals complete people’s ensembles.

There’s something about our new town that I can’t quite pin down. It’s friendly but not overbearingly so. It’s rural but not isolated. And there’s a shooting range five kilometres down the road (and ’round the corner, even!) from Fortress Mamea, a far, far cry from Auckland where the ‘local’ range was 50 kilometres away.

Why, yessir, I could get to like this place.

* Driving through en route to Cape Reinga or Kerikeri doesn’t count.

** Some dramatic licence there, obviously.

22 July 201526 January 2016

E Day Plus 5

From the correspondence of D F Mamea, Esquire, newly of Northland.

The Kitten makes the best of her circumstances.

Dearest Lovely Wife

Dave the Chimney Sweep arrived and went to put a temporary fix on the burner when he straightened and looked at me: Sorry, mate, he said, but it’s so buggered it’s unsafe to use.

He has thus uplifted the wood burner and most of the flue to rebuild in his workshop, and The Boy and I are now without heating.

I’ve told The Boy an old flatting trick of wearing as much of your wardrobe as you can to keep warm. (I refrained from telling him the other old flatting trick of heating the house by turning on all the hobs on your stovetop and turning the oven on high and leaving the ovendoor open.) We shall rearrange living and sleeping arrangements: he shall move his sleeping gear into one of the bedrooms (he’s been enjoying sleeping in the expanse of the great hall which is furnished with only two easy chairs and a most-kindly-lent 40-inch flat screen); I shall move my sleeping gear into the study; and the remaining bedroom shall become the new and temporary lounge with the easy chairs and flat screen. We’ll downsize our living spaces to maximise heat retention.

It’ll be fun. For the first week.

21 July 201530 January 2016

E Day Plus 4

From the correspondence of D F Mamea, Esquire, newly of Northland.

Dearest Lovely Wife

The Dog and The Puppy didn’t finish their dinner from last night so I only topped up their bowls for breakfast. I’m a little worried about their lack of appetite but they were still reasonably active. The Boy took them for a walk and there were no complaints (from the dogs) (or the boy). Their food supply shall be adjusted, their behaviour and waistlines closely monitored.

The Kitten doesn’t like her SPCA food. Only minutes earlier, I heard her sullenly chew a single mouthful of it before leaving the house. Another animal to keep an eye on.

There are still ten ex-Laingholm chickens in the Green Zone, plus the inherited guinea fowl and bantam. They seem settled as they hoovered up their food. I hereby dub their chicken house Fowl Aer.

Dave the Chimney Sweep had a look at the reluctant and smoky wood burner this morning. This needs more than a sweep, mate. He said it needed to be removed completely and overhauled: the baffles were buckled and rotted out, the flue had split, and a couple of other things I didn’t hear because my mind was screaming, It’s winter! The nights are cold in winter! Since being without a burner was not an option, he’s due back first thing tomorrow morning to put in a temporary fix that will keep the fire useable for the next few months.

The Boy and I tried a nearby takeaway (‘nearby’ being fifteen minutes drive from the fortress). There was a fetid tinge to the smell of cooking oil in the air that didn’t bode well. Our fish and chips were edible: The Boy give it a 7, on a scale of 1 to 10 where 1 is terrible and 10 is excellent; I gave the food a 4 for being edible and filling.

All warmed by full stomachs, the dogs and I did a perimeter check in the dark. They do like the opportunity to walk and sniff. I’m less apprehensive than the first couple of times I did it. The idea of walking through a forest at night isn’t sound when you think about it. But walking through a forest you’re increasingly familiar with is different — there’s much less likelihood of getting lost or being jumped by ninjas (and if the latter, this being private property, I can walk the perimeter strapped).

20 July 201528 January 2016

E Day Plus 3

From the correspondence of D F Mamea, Esquire, newly of Northland.

The new Fortress Mamea's first egg. — The new Fortress Mamea’s first egg.

Dearest Lovely Wife

I thought a situational report (henceforth sitrep) would be helpful, informative, and an aid to my ailing moment-to-moment memory.

The alarm went off at 0555 and I immediately turned it off. I had purposely set it for 0555 the night before, thinking I-don’t-know-what (yes I do: thinking that farm-type people get up at 0555 or thereabouts [not thinking further that Those People probably go to sleep a lot earlier than the 2330 time I went to bed and set the alarm for the coming morning]). After a few rumbles of paws on the verandah I roused and said hello to The Dog and The Puppy. They were boisterous in their morning greetings — it’s one of the things I love about dogs: every absence, no matter how short or long, is ended by effusive and licky reunions — and I gave them breakfast.

The morning perimeter check commenced soon after, the dogs and I starting with the chicken run (henceforth Green Zone). Yesterday, on the dusk perimeter check, two of the girls — Dumb White Chicken and Not Dottie — had presumably used the decrepit chicken tractor to fly out of the Jerusalem cherry-free Green Zone; Dumb was successfully coaxed back into the safe zone and eventually returned to the chicken house; unfortunately Not Dottie was Not Interested. This morning, the adopted guinea fowl, Giselle, was out of the chicken run completely, and Not Dottie had been joined outside the Green Zone by Dumb White Chicken and Clint. I dragged the chicken tractor into the centre of the Green Zone so that it could no longer provide means of escape.

The nesting boxes have yet to be discovered by the chickens but one egg was on the floor in the hay — at least one of the chickens, it would seem, has settled into their new environs.

As for the rest of the property:
— the horse troughs are all full;
— goddamn there’s a lot of Jerusalem cherry in The Wood awaiting our attentions;
— The Puppy dived and jumped and played in a large puddle of muddy water which strengthens the case for her being part water dog;
— there’s plenty of firewood in The Wood — will need to drag out and place in the woodshed to dry out before cutting with either the skilsaw (currently in Laingholm) or a brand spanking chainsaw (which I shall call “Mother”).

Here ends the first report. Don’t know how regular these will be, but if I can be persistent they should provide some kind of log of things needing doing, and things done (it’s also been a good springboard for my to-do list for the upcoming town trip).

Yours, always

17 July 201515 January 2018

Exodus

It’s time to come clean.

Fortress Mamea is not an actual fortress. I have described various parts of it with fortress-like words (like armoury) — all of the parts exist… but in a real-world Kiwi quarter-acre section and house kind of way. (Hey, what did you expect? I’m a writer.)

And the reason for this moment of truth is that the inhabitants of Fortress Mamea are leaving West Auckland and moving north where — with, as always, the Goddess’ indulgence — a new home has been established.

Located in the rolling hills outside of Whangarei, the new, more substantial and redoubtable Fortress Mamea is over fourteen acres of land, bounded on three sides by a ~~moat~~ stream, and includes:

paddocks for the Cavalry troop;
airfield and hangar for the close air support element;
one defensible official entry point, easily upgradeable with dragon’s teeth and balistraria;
at least 500 square metres of ~~arable land~~ gardens, orchards and … edible-stuff-growing areas;
and nine acres of woodland for company-size manoeuvres.

The Wood — There’s *acres* of this stuff. Ideal, one might say, for paintball adventures…

So, yeah.

More space. Less excuses.

New chapter.

15 June 201521 March 2017

Good Sick

I had a typical 1970s Pacific Islander upbringing: every Sunday began with getting up at what felt like first cock’s crow to attend a church service, followed by Sunday school, followed by an interminable wait for the adults to finish their networking and whatever, then get home for to’ona’i.

…Damn those Sunday mornings felt like forever. Still, my parents — bless their jandalled feet — would, on the way home, sometimes stop by a Kentucky or Homestead outlet to pick up some fried chicken to add to the to’ona’i staples of rice, sapa sui, corned beef, taro, palusami and potato salad.

This tradition continued after the Mamea children fled the nest. One Sunday every month, we returned to the family home for to’ona’i, us wage- and salary-earners bringing KFC, fish ‘n’ chips and ice cream while my mother prepared the usual staples. In order to deflect parental interrogations of our lifestyles and lack of family-starting, we kids introduced a new tradition: a family viewing of an action film chosen for its satisfyingly high body count and Old Testament-style morals.

Post-meal, my siblings and I would spread out around the sitting room, half-watching the video*, and moaning to each other about how full we felt. We didn’t call it overeating. Whatever descriptions we attempted were rarely prefixed with ‘over-’ or had the words ‘too much‘; the word ‘nausea’ didn’t enter our minds, either.

We worked with simple, humble ‘sick’.

There was a spectrum to the Mamea post-to’ona’i sick: at one end was ‘bad sick’ which sometimes necessitated sudden yet discreet visits to the toilet; and at the other end was ‘good sick’ where it was acknowledged that that last piece of chicken may have been a bridge too far but so long as we didn’t move or twitch, the discomfort was manageable.

I’ve no idea how it informs my writing.

But now you know there is such a thing as good sick.

* And half-watching our mother exhorting the hero on the telly to Kill them! Kill them all!

8 May 201516 September 2015

The Puppy

The Northland litter. — The Northland litter at rest.

A few weeks back, The Goddess and I travelled north to select a future successor to The Dog. There was a litter of twelve puppies from which to choose, and we had first dibs — a privilege bestowed upon us by the Horsewoman, purveyor of the cavalry element and co-conspirator with The Goddess of all schemes equine. Securing a successor sounds ruthless on first listen but part of life is death, and life is hard to imagine without the companionship of a dog.

Choosing a puppy was more difficult than expected. Each candidate had to be assessed for colour, aptitude, energy — oh, who the heck am I kidding? They were all cute. They were all cuddly. They could all have come back to Fortress Mamea with us, their mother and owner be damned.

Luckily, The Goddess remembered a checklist drawn up earlier, when we weren’t surrounded by playful, yippy bundles of joy: female, calm, of good character, and with excellent references. The Horsewoman suggested a couple of candidates that fit the criteria, and the rest was pretty much a coin-toss.

Meet The Puppy:

31 October 20141 November 2014

Bon Bon Lecter, I Presume

Signs warding off trick-or-treaters were unnecessary this year:

31 August 20144 September 2014

Hi-yo

Until a couple of years ago, my attitude to horses was similar to Billy Crystal‘s “Yeeha” in City Slickers (at 1:44 in the trailer below):

My first experience with horses was a sunset trek with friends more than a few years ago. I remember being taken aback at how big these beasts are, never having thought through the amount of muscle and bone required to carry riders in countless westerns and Black Beauty reboots. When we were led to a corral with horses, I requested a “quiet one with a touch of adventure” and was introduced to a gelding called Bruce.

Bruce and I got on fine: he followed the rest of the group over various tracks in the hills behind Johnsonville. I remember thinking how westerns never show a horse pooing voluminously or farting freely as they moved about.

A while into the trek an open paddock beckoned and the more experienced riders broke into a canter, leaving us behind. I remember urging Bruce on — with maybe a polite “Yah” and a tentative kick of the heels — and he accelerated from a walk to a trot to a canter, all the while I slid in slow motion from the saddle, hung onto his neck for a couple of strides, slipping further and further down until I was deposited on the grass and Bruce showed me his heels and backside.

There were no hard feelings. I was only winded. I had requested a mount “with a touch of adventure” which had obviously exceeded my ambition. Someone caught Bruce, I got back into the saddle and the rest of the trek was uneventful.

I’ve ridden a horse once since that trek, and although I’m told I “look good on a horse”, they’re not really my thing (though a part of me thinks horse riding could be a useful skill after The Crash). The Goddess is — there’s no other way of putting it — horse mad.

Which brings me to an overdue introduction of the cavalry troop at Fortress Mamea:

The Goddess’ mount, The Kaimanawa Pony stands 14.2 hands high.

In the past week, the troop has ~~doubled~~ increased by two-thirds with a new recruit:

A paddock companion for the Kaimanawa: The Exmoor Mini stands 10 hands tall.

Onwards, ho, indeed.